Introduction
by H.Georgia
Summary: Clint and Natasha meet. It's a first encounter for legends. Introductions are never smooth.


Introduction

"And you feel the eyes upon you as you're shaking off the cold," _Turn the Page_ by Metallica.

Sixteen hours on a roof with no food, no water, no rest, and nothing but a brick building with two dirty windows, one clean one that he couldn't see through because of a thick pink curtain, and a broken window that had been boarded up a long time ago by the looks of the bloated, cracking wood. Clint sighed, not for the first time. Sixteen hours was a long time for anyone to be staring down the sight of a rifle with complete focus, even a great sniper like himself. It was worse when the most interesting thing to happen so far was garbage pick-up and that had been six hours ago.

"Coulson," Clint pleaded through the comm. "Just nuke her. Blow her to smithereens. I want off this roof and I want off this roof now."

"Aren't snipers supposed to be patient?" Coulson asked and the mocking tone dripped through the comm like honey.

Clint snorted. "I have been patient. I have been patiently waiting up on this roof for a woman who _might_ be in that building for sixteen hours. I am running out of patience. I know I'm here for long distance and I get that but I'm perfectly capable of going in there and stabbing her in the face with an arrow. In fact, considering how long she has made me wait I will do it for you for free. Do you hear that Coulson? I will kill someone for free."

He could hear Coulson give a kind of half-snort and half-sigh over the comm. "I don't think that's a good idea. The Black Widow is dangerous, Clint."

That was about all he'd heard of the woman. She was dangerous. She was clever. She was a shadow that slipped between the fingers of some of the most powerful agencies and people in the world and danced away from the blood and the war without a drop of sweat. She was beautiful. She was intelligent. She was lethal. And then, she was gone. "And yet, in two months I managed to track down a plausible lead and hunt her down to Nebraska of all places."

"You're very proud of yourself, aren't you?" Coulson asked.

Clint smirked. "It's worthy of a little pride."

"Try not to boast too much," Coulson said.

Clint scoffed. "Boast? Me?"

"I'm serious, Clint," Coulson replied.

Clint glared at the building but his perfect eyesight didn't include x-ray vision. Too bad, he could have shot her that way. "I told you she picked up on us. She's probably long gone by now."

"There's no way," Coulson said. "We acted immediately. We didn't even tell anyone until you were in place. If you were right, and she was in that building, then she's still in that building."

"_If_ I was right…I'm right. I'm always right," Clint boasted. He smelled it, even crinkled his nose before it registered in his brain. The damp, rank smell of sewage and stale water wafted from behind him, carried by the wind. Perhaps it was because he'd forced all his focus and concentration onto his singular task. That was the flattering theory. The more likely theory was that the drudgery of sitting in the same place and looking at the same thing had him slow. He took his hands off the sniper before her the cool metal barrel of the gun even pressed into his neck. "Black Widow?"

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice carried a small lilt to it that was eastern European or Russian, maybe. It was throaty and sexy. Clint wondered if she looked the way her voice made her sound. Clint wondered if she'd let him live long enough to turn around and find out.

"So you're the Black Widow, huh?" he asked, not bothering to answer her question. She hadn't bothered to answer his after all, and the moment he answer her questions he was a dead man.

"Get up or I will shoot you," she demanded.

Clint shrugged. "You're going to shoot me anyways."

"Yes, but I can shoot you once in the head and kill you quickly and painlessly or I can start by shooting out your kneecaps and then move onto your arms and maybe get a couple into your ankles and hands and then when you've finally given me the information I want, and you will I can assure you, I will shoot you in the stomach. It is a painful way to die. You will live for several hours before you bleed out," she replied. Her voice was ice cold.

Clint used his hands to push himself up and then put them back out to his side, palms open. He turned around and he could see why so many had fallen for her, both with their hearts and then when she was through with them, their bodies. She was fair skin, fiery hair, piercing eyes, pouty lips, and a spark behind her expression that begged you to step closer and feel the warmth hidden behind her cool exterior. "Black Widow?"

She twisted her lips into a scowl. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"Clearly we are not going to be exchanging names and phone numbers," Clint replied.

Her eyes flickered to his and then proceeded to seemingly scan the rest of his face. After a moment's hesitations she said, "Yes, I am the Black Widow."

Clint gave her a charming smile. "Pleasure. I'm Hawkeye."

"That's not your real name," she spit back at him.

He shrugged. "And Black Widow is not yours."

"Why are you here?" she asked. Her arms never wavered, her aim never faltered. She had the gun steadily pointed at the center of his chest, ready to fire the moment he made a move she didn't like.

"I'm bird watching," he said with a cheeky grin.

"With a sniper rifle?" she said. It was faint but he could almost hear the derision in her voice.

He shrugged; it was a small shrug as to not give her cause to fire. "I couldn't find my binoculars."

"Who hired you to try and kill me?" she asked.

"Can I put my arms down?" he asked. "My arms are getting sore."

"No," she replied.

He ignored her and dropped his arms anyways. They fell to his sides with a soft thump that couldn't be overheard beneath the angry crack of a fired gun. Clint hissed through his teeth and glanced with mild concern at the bleeding gash on his arm. "Ow."

"Put your arms back up or the next time I shoot won't just be a graze," she said.

"Fine." Clint put his arms back up and her eyes immediately went to his left hand where he now held a little rubber ball, like the kind you won from those twenty-five cent machines. He immediately threw it in her direction. It sailed past her head on the right, missing her face by less than an inch.

"That was, less than impressive," she said and now she wore a smug smile. Clint couldn't wait to wipe it off her face. "You missed."

"I never miss," Clint replied as the bouncy ball finished its course of bouncing against the ledge, the wall, the stove pipe, and then flung itself at the back of her head. It hit with enough force that she lost her concentration. Clint used the opportunity to bring his hand down on her wrist. She barely kept hold of the gun but lost it entirely when he elbowed her in the stomach. He kicked it out of her reach and then took the brunt of her kick to his chest that had him stumbling backwards. He dropped and swung out his leg to knock her off her feet. She came down with as much grace as a ton of falling bricks. He jumped up, pulled his own gun from the small of his back, and aimed at her. She looked up at him, staring at him over the barrel of his gun. Her expression was one of resignation or acceptance. No, it was one of gratitude.

Here was a woman who'd fought him tooth and nail, tried so hard to kill him, but it was her own death that she looked at with peace and happiness. This was an escape for her. Clint lowered the gun. Her face morphed into confusion. "What are you doing?"

"What's your name?" Clint asked. "Your real name, what's your real name?"

"Natalia Romanova," she said quietly.

Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow, a femme fatale of legendary status. Clint wondered when she'd last been called by that name. "How badly do you want out?"

"Out," she repeated the word, like it was foreign to her.

"Yeah, out. I don't want to kill you, Nat. I don't want to kill anyone. If you want out, I will help you but I got to know…are you willing to walk away from whatever it is?" he asked.

"I never wanted this," she said.

"I know," Clint replied. He could see it in her face.

Natalia nodded. "I want to walk away."

Clint kept the gun trained on her and walked over to her gun. He picked it up and put it in the small of his back. "Stand up. I think we can protect you."

She heeded his words.

They stood there, with Clint aiming a gun at her heart and she, unarmed and yet staring at him with the same ferocity. He lowered the gun. "Don't try to kill me and I won't have to shoot you."

She looked at him with suspicion for a long time, months after this ordeal had been written down in the books and then expunged with a black marker so that no one would ever be able to read the whole story again. She looked at him and he could see her mind trying to work out the scenario, trying to see what his agenda had been when he'd had her dead to rights and chosen not to pull the trigger.

Clint still wonders. He doubts Natasha will figure it out before he does.


End file.
